The *****'s Evil HeartThe word 'mother ' fills me with blood ripping rage as the wells of disgust fill me at the thought of the word mother and the sound of it repulses me. I detest the raw instinct of the word, yet I am raw to the bone, bleeding with passion and fury.
The woman, that stupid ***** has for the majority of my life has ensured that I feel as low as she thinks girls and women are supposed to feel. ******* Indians and their daughter degrading culture. This woman has a more insidious approach of doing so. She will buy me things, cook and clean, but the thing is, nothing she has done for me is from a genuine love, more out of guilt. Guilt that she does not love me as much as her sons. To her girls are a burden.She doesn't buy things for her sons, but she does not have to. There is love for them Her mind is trapped with the belief that girls and women are dirty, a stain on the fabric of society. Girls and women are supposed to cook for the men.
That *****, despite her thinking, is not one of the women who would happily cook for the family. Her food was always tasteless beyond comparison. I said thank you for each meal, much to the mockery of one of my brothers, for not having his idea of higher standards, but while I knew, I wanted to extend my thanks to the person who cooked the meal, regardless of how bland or crappy it was, except for the one time when even I told her the food was disgusting. She thinks of shortcuts. If I cook, I tend to think of the longer option, with home made stock etc. I hate cooking but I still ensure that my cooking will have things in it to contribute to the health of those who eat the meal. I am not a better person and in many ways I am worse I think. I don't beat my kids, but I am struggling daily with them. I am a freelance writer and in this house, there is no respect for me. I am the loser, the waste of life, just because I work from home. Her idea of writing is ba
I knew despite her buying things for me, that she did not love me the way she wanted. It was the energy of her that beckoned me to her dislike that bonded us, without creating a bond. I knew it even though others could not see it. They saw her as the good person, with a child that needed to be disciplined. I was always mouthy and never had an ounce of respect for her and I am so thankful for that. The only form of respect I had for her was ba
For most of my childhood I had irked her ire and stoked the fire. She derived a pleasure from beating me and then my brothers. She loved to beat us, almost like it offered her cathartic release from the rage within. Yes as much as she loved my brothers, she beat them too, but for her, she remembers the pain of what she did to them, but not what she did to me. I should be grateful for all the toys I had. I didn't want toys as much. I loved books. I had books wall to wall though and toys.
She doesn't remember hitting me over the head, drawing blood. I did not get medical attention that night. She does not remember beating and punching me when I was three, as I had smeared baby oil all over everything. She loved a clean house and never let us feel that we were good kids. She allowed others to discipline us, by telling them how bad we were. I could never control my mouth and somehow it was held against me as the adults who believed children should respect their elders tried to bully me into submission. I was strong willed and very mouthy. She did not deserve my respect. If I could have, I would have smashed her into a wall, and watch her bones melt into her brain.
My dad, was a bad husband, to the world who did not see her provoking him into beating her. Yes he hit her, but in this case, for this time, I will say she deserved each occasion. I stuck for her though, thinking she is a girl like me, so I should. I fought my dad for beating her. I fought him physically. My dad was not a saint. He thinks the woman should not argue with the man. Well I argued back. We have a better relationship.
Over the years that *****, that curse who should have been aborted or miscarried or one of the daughters that Indians love to expose to the elements in the act of female infanticide, has taken a pleasure in my suffering at the hands of violence. Then the sickening ***** has the gall to state that the crimes of another parent, similar to hers is wrong. She smirks at my rage, after she has provoked me into it. She has tried to tell me that I am insane. They both have tried to each time I brought up the fact that they were abusive, as I grew up. A few years back, she told me she would put me in mental hospital, due to the fact that I was working on a novel at the time. I am still drafting it before I let it flutter from my open hands. It is done, but not quite.
I can still remember the energetic shift when I was four. The first of her sons was born when I was three. He was sitting up on a high chair and splattered his tomatoes on the floor. The energy seemed to lift and radiate with light and she did not throw a fit. She radiated along with it. I remember trying to love him, but somehow my heart could not allow it.
Now, her hatred for all things women has revealed itself in the fact that she has confined me to the outside washing machine for one reason. I wash my sanitary napkins as I use the cloth washable ones. I mean it is natural, so what is so dirty about it? She told me I dirtied the main washing machine. So tell me, what is so dirty about using a cloth sanitary napkin?